Whisper by the river

When they emerged from the staircase, the river closed behind them like a sigh finally exhaled.

The ceremonial platform was quiet, though not empty. The people of Obade stood waiting some holding lanterns despite the daylight, others clutching old relics: calabashes, staffs, hand-woven mats. A few had come barefoot, as if remembering the ground itself might be sacred again.

No one spoke as the three stepped forward. Not Ola, still carrying the golden-repaired drum. Not Iyagbẹ́kọ, who held the cloth of verse against her chest like a reborn child. Not Èkóyé, whose mirror of still water now reflected not sky but memory.

They did not need to speak.

The river had begun to speak for them.

From its surface came slow ripples, pulsing like breath. And then quietly, impossibly names began to rise.

They came not from mouths, but from the water itself.

Aanu. Babatunji. Ẹ̀rùkẹ́rẹ́. Ọmọláyọ̀. Ṣeun. Morẹ́nikẹ́.

Each name surfaced like a bubble of memory, glimmering with mist and song, then floated toward the villagers before vanishing into the air like incense.

The people gasped.

Some cried out. Others fell to their knees.

Old women began whispering prayers they hadn't uttered in fifty years. Men clutched their sons tightly. One young girl no older than eight walked forward and reached out to catch one of the names. When her fingers touched it, the air around her shimmered. She spoke softly:

"Morẹ́nikẹ́ was my grandmother's sister. They said she drowned because she disobeyed. But… she sang. She just… sang."

The villagers turned to her.

And for the first time in living memory, no one silenced the child.

Iyagbẹ́kọ stepped forward.

"These are not ghost stories. They are truths buried by fear. The river remembers what we tried to forget."

She raised the cloth in her hand. The verse upon it glowed faintly not written in ink, but in stitchwork shaped like ancestral symbols: spirals, tears, flames, and open eyes.

"This is the cloth of testimony. It carries words long buried. But it is not mine alone to carry."

She knelt and placed it on the platform. "Who will add their verse?"

Silence.

Then one woman stepped forward elderly, frail, with trembling lips. Her name was Adunni. She had once been the village's midwife, before they cast her out for speaking of dreams that "should not be seen."

"I have a name," she said. "A boy I could not save. They said he was cursed. He was just born with different eyes."

She laid a palm over the cloth.

The verse shimmered. And a new line appeared.

"The child with the sky-eyes saw what others feared."

Others began to come forward.

One by one.

Each with a name.

Each with a truth.

Each with a verse.

Beneath the Platform

The River Queen's chamber pulsed with light.

Ẹ̀nítàn sat upon her throne, her tears no longer sorrowful but cleansing. Around her, the spirits of the drowned of the forgotten began to rise. Not as ghosts, but as memories given voice.

Each name spoken above became a pillar of light below.

Each verse became a bridge.

A drowned boy smiled. A broken woman danced. An old seer sang a line no one had ever let him finish until now.

The chamber pulsed with rhythm. Not of grief.

But of return.

Above

Ola stepped forward next, holding the golden drum.

"This is not for performance," he said, voice steady. "This is a heartbeat restored."

He knelt. Then began to play.

Soft. Reverent. Like raindrops on dry earth.

The crowd closed their eyes.

And the beat carried them.

Then came the mirror.

Èkóyé held it up. At first, it showed only his own face.

But as the drumbeat deepened, the surface of the mirror shimmered.

And then it began to reflect not the present but the past.

A boy taken by soldiers.

A woman locked in silence.

A village priest who once refused to give a name to the spirit that protected them because that name was a woman's.

All returned.

The mirror flickered like flame. And within it, the villagers saw themselves not as they are, but as they were meant to be.

A people who danced with their river, not above it.

A people who named instead of shamed.

A people who listened.

The Queen's Voice

Then, for the first time, her voice carried into the world above.

Not in words.

But in wind.

The leaves rustled in a rhythm never heard before.

The trees bowed slightly.

The river lapped gently at the shore.

And the people knew:

Ẹ̀nítàn was not demanding worship.

She was offering return.

Final Movement

That night, the villagers lit no torches.

The river glowed.

Children were allowed to drum.

Elders told stories without caution.

And for the first time since memory could recall, the platform was used not for warning, but for welcoming.

Iyagbẹ́kọ sat by the water's edge, staff across her knees.

Èkóyé stood beside her, still watching, still listening.

Ola stared at the drum in his lap. The beat within it pulsed like a second heart.

He looked to the village faces open, hands unburdened.

Then to the water.

He whispered, "We have spoken the names."

And from beneath the surface came a reply.

Not loud.

Not grand.

But a single ripple.

As if the river had nodded.